GUEST BLOGGER: PASCALE LAVALLÉE
I remember that day five years ago. My dad was with me. We were sitting in the waiting room at the neurologist’s office. The secretary didn’t look very friendly – you know, the kind of person who always looks as though you’re bothering her. There were hundreds of files in the cabinets behind her. All those sick people who needed a file here to get better. I remember feeling uncomfortable to be sitting there in that chair. I felt as if I was taking the place that belonged to someone who really needed to see the doctor. There was nothing wrong with me – no more symptoms at all. It was just fatigue, or maybe the side effects of my birth control pills. So when the neurologist invited me to come into his office, I went in alone. But he suggested that I go get my father from the waiting room.
Then the diagnosis: multiple sclerosis. To me, it sounded like a skin disease. Maybe that explained my problems with eczema. When I turned to my father, I could see that something was wrong, but I knew absolutely nothing about neurology and I had no clue. My father grabbed my hand and gave me a hug – a strong hug, full of love and pain. When the neurologist started to explain the disease to me, I tried to figure out what was so serious about it. I understood that people with the disease often end up in a wheelchair after a few years. OK, fine, I can live with that, but then what? Am I going to die? Am I going to become a vegetable? Am I going to be unable to remember the people I love? No, no and no. So I was still trying to work out what was so bad. The only thing I had in mind was a planned trip to Asia; I told myself that, as long as I could travel, everything would be fine.